


Unannounced

by amy_vic



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-Typical classism, Canon-typical language, M/M, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 13:39:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11990943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amy_vic/pseuds/amy_vic
Summary: or: 5 Times Ray Stopped Talking (and One Time Brad Did)





	Unannounced

**Five.**

They've been on leave for the last nine days, the last few of which have been 12 hour chunks of surfing broken up by sleep and board wax.

Most people would be good and tired by day three, but not Ray. Apparently he is a solar- and saltwater-powered chatterbox, because he hasn't stopped talking since they got out of bed this morning. Brad usually tunes out 70% of what Ray says while they're paddling out into the lineup, but the last few sets haven't been great, and he's had to bail twice in order to avoid getting smashed into by grommets. As a result, Brad has been sitting on his board next to Ray for the past 15 minutes, waiting for a half-decent wave that no one's going to snake, and instead getting to listen to Ray prattle on about the virtues of mixing M&M's into your popcorn at the theater.

"Hey, Ray," Brad says, calmly reaching over for Ray's board. Ray doesn't notice; he's too busy waving his arm around to emphasize his point. Brad times it perfectly, flipping Ray off his board and underwater just as a swell builds behind them. The momentum is perfect, and Ray goes in shoulder-first, a little faster than Brad thought he would.

He knows that Ray is gonna pop up unharmed, splutter, and then bitch about it until lunch, but Brad doesn't care. Twenty seconds of silence.

 

**Four.**

"I fucking hate you," Ray says. It's both muffled and echoey, because Ray hasn't lifted his head far enough out of the toilet bowl. "Fuck you and your raw California hippie bullshit food. I hate you. If I wasn't afraid I'd puke on your head, I'd demand an apology blowjob for making me eat that shit."

Brad sighs and opens the nearest cupboard to dig for the box of saltines. There's only a handful left, he's going to have to go pick up more. He checks the fridge; might as well get more ginger ale while he's out. "Ray, that sushi was perfectly safe; Rudy and I both ate twice as much as you did, and we're fine. You're probably only sick because your system is too used to eating Chef Boyardee, mess hall chow, and grilled cheese sandwiches with ungodly amounts of ketchup on them."

Ray makes a sad, gross little noise in reply. Brad takes Ray's cell off the bathroom counter and places is on the floor near his hand. "I'll be back in half an hour. Text if you need anything."

 

**Three.**

"You remember the signals?"

"Yes, but--"

"But, nothing. You wanted an apology blowjob, you're getting one. Now, either you remember the signals or you do not. Which is it?"

"Yes, I do."

"Tell me what they are, and what they mean."

"If I nod my head up and down, that means yes, keep going. Side to side means slow down or check something, and if I open and close my right hand really wide three times in a row, that means I need to stop immediately."

"Good. You want a drink before I put this on?" Brad reaches for the water bottle on the bedside table, tips it so Ray can drink without having to stop and uncuff his hands from behind his back.

This silicone pacifier ball gag is the best $40 Brad has spent in a while.

He kneels.

 

**Two.**

"Ray," he hisses into Ray's ear, "those eight severely drunk, whiskey-tango backwater assholes are looking for a fight to liven up their Saturday night. They all have loaded shotguns in their trucks; between you and I there's, what, a couple of pocketknives, a pack of gum, and our boots? I know we're trained killers, Ray, but not like _this_. And I'm not about to go wake your mother up to tell her your brains are currently drying in the parking lot of your local dive bar because Bobby Joe Homophobe and his brother-cousins wanted to crack some skulls, and ours were available."

Ray swallows. Brad can feel the muscles in Ray's throat work, from under Brad's arm. Brad's hand is clamped over Ray's mouth, and Ray is exhaling heavily through his nose. Brad counts to five in his head, feels Ray nod, then takes his hand away and steps to Ray's side, making sure to keep both their bodies hidden in the dark recess of the bar roof's wide overhang.

"Okay. Exfil in ten seconds," Ray finally says, and Brad can feel more than see Ray nod towards the Dumpster at the far end of the building. Brad's truck is parked fifteen feet beyond that, near the back door. "Don't run. I'll follow in a minute. I'm not there in three minutes, gun the engine and run them all down."

Every nerve in his body is on high alert, which is why he can be 30 feet away and still clearly hear Ray unzip his jeans and start taking a leak against the wall. Ray also starts singing, an off-key warble that sounds exactly like Drunken Ray; only the fact that he's singing "Teenage Dirtbag" gives away the fact that he's cold sober. (Ray sings country songs when he's drunk.)

Ninety seconds later, Ray's propping his boots up on the dash of the truck, grinning around the cigarette he's lighting. "Hey, can we hit up a drive thru on the way home? I could seriously go for a bacon cheeseburger."

 

**One.**

****"**** Soon as we're home, I'm putting in my twenty." 

"Yeah, sure," Rays says. He's digging through his pack for his extra pair of dry socks. Brad had laughed at him a little for that ("we're only going to be gone two nights, Ray.") but neither of them had anticipated that last stream crossing. "Being a Marine is your entire fuckin' life, dude, you're gonna be 95 and still going on HAHO jumps with eighty pounds of gear strapped to you." 

"Right, except, I'm completely serious, Ray." Brad keeps stirring the pot of soup on the cookstove. 

"You're..." Ray stares at him, and Brad can see in his peripheral vision that Ray is gaping at him and blinking like a stunned trout. "Holy shit, you _are_ serious." 

"Yeah," Brad says. Neither of them really say anything then, because there's dinner to eat, maps to re-check and they still haven't agreed on what time they want to be up in the morning. Once they're both in the tent, though, with the last of the day's sunset casting shadows around them, Ray says, "So, what, you really just want to get married, quit your job, and become a househusband?" 

"I wouldn't put it like that." 

"But you do want to get married." 

"Yes." 

"Ok, cool. Now we don't have to go all the fuck way out to Eagle Rock in the morning just so you can ask me to marry you there." 

"Fuck you, Ray, we came all the way out here, we're going to fucking Eagle Rock tomorrow." 

  

**1.**   


Brad barely makes it through his front door before he's dropping his gear bag and moving silently through the first floor of the house, one room at a time. Ray isn't supposed to be home for another three hours, but the front door was unlocked and there's noise coming from the kitchen. 

The noise in the kitchen turns out to be something bubbling away in a large pot on the stove, something else in the oven, and Ray standing at the sink, quietly singing along to the radio as he washes glasses. 

"...Ray, what the fuck?" 

Ray turns, setting down the glass and wiping his hands on his shirt. "It's called cooking dinner for your husband; you really should try it sometime." 

"Ray, we've been legally married for three days." 

"Are you gonna bitch, or are you gonna go wash up while I set the table?" Ray scowls and gestures with the spatula. Sauce drips onto the counter. 

Brad grins and snaps a dishtowel at him. 

(The meal only burns a little.) 

  

****~ _end_ ~** **


End file.
